Part 48 (1/2)

On the whole his visit did much to heighten Margaret's feverish impatience, and filled her with some of his own sanguine hopes.

When the young gentleman had gone, Margaret wandered through the wide, echoing rooms with a sense of freedom which she had never experienced before; a feeling of affection for these familiar chambers, for the sake of her who had owned them, and of him who should have now possessed them.

How she had loved the tender-hearted and freakish Madam Brand, no soul save herself and that dead woman had known; and loving her as she did, could she do else than lay a like sentiment at the feet of her only kinsman, the hapless St. Udo.

Pacing through these lofty rooms the lonely girl thought over her checkered past; she breathed a sigh over the pathetic memory of her fond and foolish patroness; she gave a smile of scorn to the man who had come like a curse in the n.o.ble St. Udo's stead; the hateful impostor, whose last abject depredation had been but the type of his crawling, insatiable nature, which, sleuth-hound like, held on to the prey to the very last, and made off with a miserable mouthful of it rather than nothing.

But when she came to the portrait of St. Udo Brand, in the long crimson dining-room, the fierce flicker softened in her yearning eyes, and a sacred, tender smile dawned on her lips.

She studied the grand, pa.s.sionate-speaking countenance, whose features were cast in a mold fitted to express the n.o.blest emotions, till the soulful eyes seemed to seek hers with a living beam of grat.i.tude; till the fine lips seemed to thrill with a gentle smile, and the souls of St.

Udo Brand and Margaret Walsingham appeared to have met face to face for the first time, and to hold sweet communion together.

Great tears slowly dropped from Margaret's pa.s.sionate eyes and washed her cheeks, her tender lip quivered with the thoughts that were swaying her heart; for a quick wild pang of grief smote her to think that he was in his grave.

He had scorned her, he had trampled her under foot, and she forgave him all, and wept that he was dead.

For oh, the heart of such a woman is capable of a love, which, to love of softer women, is as glowing wine to water, as the towering, scorching flame of the red volcano to the chill pale ray of the winter morn.

In the afternoon of the same day, Mrs. Chetwode came into Margaret's room with the news that Mr. Davenport was below, inquiring for an immediate interview.

”He do look raised, Miss Margaret,” said Mrs. Chetwode; ”he snaps round like an angry watch-dog.”

He came up to Miss Walsingham's parlor and burst in, hot, red, loud, and angry.

”Ha! you have seen fit to return to your post, sir,” cried Margaret, woman-like antic.i.p.ating the fray.

”Return, madam!” fired the lawyer. ”Am I here too soon for you, madam--how long did you want me to stay?”

”I did not want you to go, sir,” said Margaret.

”Hear her, oh, hear her!” screamed the lawyer, appealing to the cornice, ”if that is not upright and downright insanity, show me a maniac in Bedlam. Madam,” with grim pleasantry, ”shall you banish me to the top of Mont Blanc in your next letter about a mythological Colonel Brand?”

She maintained a dignified silence.

”Madam, since your little scheme to get both your guardians out of the way has succeeded so well, will you do me the favor of confessing what you have done with the colonel?”

”I have unmasked him, Mr. Davenport, and shown the world a murderer.”

”What the duse do you mean, young lady?”

”He is proved an impostor, Mr. Davenport, believe me for once.”

”Pig-headed as ever, I see,” groaned the lawyer. ”Come tell me why you sent me to Bala?” in a wheedling tone. ”Be calm and give your reasons frankly.”

”I beg your pardon, sir, but I did not send you to Bala.”

”Confound the woman!” shouted Davenport, ”she denies everything. She is mad! she'll deny the work of her own hand next, I do believe. Why did you write me this letter, Miss Margaret Walsingham?” (s.n.a.t.c.hing it from his pocket and waving it like a banner of victory before her eyes.) ”Your own handwriting--your own signature, madam. Please do not shock me by denying it.”

She looked at the letter--her own familiar chirography started her out of countenance.